


Where The River Runs

by KottonKat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drama, Feels, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt's inability to use his words, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Part-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft sex, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, time skip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26011072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KottonKat/pseuds/KottonKat
Summary: Ten years after the events on the mountain, Jaskier is back in Lettenhove acting as Viscount. He's not overly fond of it, but finds solace from his shattered heart in caring for his people and seeing them safe.Most of his days are quiet, spent tending to his duties, while still finding the time to write the occasional song. It's a far cry from adventure, but he doesn't hate the soft, slow days or even the occasional chance to sneak out and care for his people in adifferentway. All in all, he's content, even if he does still sometimes dream of silver hair and piercing yellow eyes, a gruff voice rumbling in his ear. It's fine, he respects Geralt's decision and finds filling his days with purpose has helped to heal the raw bits inside of him.He could have spent the rest of his life like this if only fate, the fickle hag, hadn't decided to intervene by sending a pack of Drowner's to terrorize his city.Now he has no choice but to send out a contract for a Witcher. But it's fine, because what are the odds of Geralt being the one to answer it anyway?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 203





	Where The River Runs

**Author's Note:**

> This does not follow the canon timeline very well but takes place roughly ten years after the episode Rare Species. I also addressed the Jaskier not aging problem by giving him Elven blood, because the thought of him aging and dying while Geralt lives on is too much for me. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

“My Lord?”

Jaskier looks up at the sound of the soft voice, and a smile tugs at his lips as he inclines his head at the man in the doorway. “Artur, good morning!”

“Not as such, I’m afraid.” The old man sighs and steps into the room, and for a moment Jaskier’s heart studders in his chest when he catches the look of pained dismay on the normally stoic face.

“Has something happened?” He asks, rising swiftly from his chair, morning paperwork all but forgotten. “Another incident down at the port?”

Artur is silent for a long moment, turned toward the large window in Jaskier’s study, and he watches with anxiety clawing at his chest as the older man considers his words. “There was trouble last night, out at the farms, a pack of drowners took a little girl.”

The words freeze Jaskier in place, horror icy in his gut. “No,” he breathes, stalking the few feet between him and Artur to stand at the man's side. “Tell me it isn't so!”

Artur shakes his head, unwilling to look at Jaskier, and as he stares at him he can see the lines of tension pulling tight around Artur’s eyes. “I’m afraid so, My Lord. Mathias and Tilda’s little one, taken as she went to tend the goats.”

Flashes of auburn hair, a bright smile turned his way as he visited the couple just a few weeks ago for estimates on the year’s output, choke their way through him, a sickening bubble that causes tears to prick the corners of his eyes. “Oh, not little Sarah! How could this have happened?”

If there is one thing Jaskier knows, better than most, it is the savage nature of Drowners. He can’t help the images that arise; gnashing teeth and piercing claws, grotesque faces twisted in hunger while stood around a corpse, feasting on rotted flesh. He’d hated them the most, out of any creature he’d watched Geralt kill, for there was nothing poetic in their existence, just a horrifying drive to feed.

“Yes,” Artur says, finally turning to face him. The man – already on in years when Jaskier had returned to Lettenhove nearly a half-decade ago – suddenly looks ancient, the early morning light highlighting every crease and line of stress on his face.

Jaskier feels guilt curl hot and tight inside of him, and he reaches out a careful hand to place on Artur’s rigid shoulder. “You dealt with this all night while I slept, didn’t you?”Artur stiffens under his touch, but Jaskier doesn't take it personally, well aware of how different he is from any who have governed Lettenhove before.

“Yes, My Lord. I thought it best to let you rest before bringing this unpleasant matter to your attention.” Artur shifts and Jaskier draws his hand back, a tired sigh building in his chest that he keeps between his teeth.

“Artur,” he says softly, moving back to his desk to unlock one of the drawers. “I am not my father, nor am I my cousin,” the drawer pops open, and Jaskier rummages through it, searching for a familiar shape while keeping his gaze locked on Artur’s back. “If something happens to my people I want to know, regardless of the hour or the matter.”

He has made this fact clear, time and time again, but not even half a decade of his gentle hand has managed to undo the years of his family’s rule, and Artur, in particular, is still staunchly against straying from proper decorum. “Please, you know I will do anything within my power to keep them safe.” The hilt of the dagger finds his hand, and he pulls it out in a flash of silver, aware that Artur’s eyes have shifted to watch him. They have never spoken of this, of how sometimes Jaskier leaves the city, following the word of a monster sighting, only to return ragged and bruised, dirty with blood and innards.

Jaskier is grateful for this, for Artur’s silence on the matter. He’s not certain how to explain his years following Geralt, the decades of near-death experiences that had forced him to learn how to defend himself from humans and monsters alike.

Nobody in Lettenhove would understand it, nor even choose to believe it, if he were honest with himself. They saw him as the returned son of a dead Viscount, back to do his duty after years of gallivanting about masquerading as a bard, and Jaskier figured it was better this way. Even Geralt would be unlikely to believe it, should he ever know, because Jaskier had only been forced to use the things he’d been taught by the man after they had parted ways for good.

The memory is fresh, as though it had happened yesterday.

Days after leaving Geralt on the mountain, his harsh words still ringing in Jaskier’s ears, he’d found himself aimless, wandering the wilds near Barefield without a goal in sight. Two decades of following Geralt, singing his praises, tending his wounds, caring for the man as he had no other, and in a flash, it was gone. He hadn’t known what to do with himself, unable to return to life as a simple bard after years of adventure, and his upset state had led him into making foolish decisions, staying in the wilds instead of seeking a town, not paying enough attention to his surroundings.

The attack had come after dusk while walking a deserted road that led somewhere he hadn’t bothered to check, too anguished to really care where he was headed. One moment he had been glaring at the ground, kicking any decent-sized rock that crossed his path and the next a hideous shriek pierced the air, sending every hair on his body standing on end.

Within seconds the creature was upon him, lumbering its way up out of the ditch in an inhuman crawl of bulging limbs and glinting teeth. Jaskier would have frozen, terrified by the sight if years of instinct from following a Witcher hadn’t been instilled in him. Faster than he would ever have thought himself able, faster than his brain could even track, he’d drawn the silver dagger from its holster on his leg, and was lunging for the creature's throat.

It went down with a gurgle of surprise, blood, as thick and dark as ichor splattering Jaskier’s front and painting the ground beneath him. He had just enough time to catch the creature's eyes, wide with shock before it tumbled backward into the ditch from whence it came.

Jaskier had stood panting for longs moments, adrenaline thumping his heart, hands shaking, as he stared almost unseeing at the corpse before him. It was only the smell, putrid, which roused him, and with his entire body trembling he managed to sheath his dagger, wipe the worst of the blood from his hands onto his ruined pants, and peer down at the first thing he had ever killed.

It was a Ghoul.

Big and disgusting and _dead_.

Dead, and he’d been the one to kill it.

Geralt had not come to save him, had not come gliding through the trees to lop its head off at the last moment, as he had so many times before. Had not flown in to put the beast down with a reprimand on his tongue, all pinched expression and disapproving eyes for Jaskier being careless once again.

No. Jaskier had saved himself this time, somehow, and that fact had him falling to his knees in the middle of the road, headless of the blood on the ground, and _laughing_. 

He’d vowed then and there, as his laughter morphed into tears, that he would pick himself up and shake off Geralt, because no matter what the other man thought, no matter what he’d said, Jaskier was strong, and just as it had for his entire life, that strength would see him through.

He was finally ready to believe it.

Which is why now, as he straps the silver dagger to his leg and squares his shoulders, he smiles at Artur. Does his best to put as much reassurance as he can into it, even as the old man's eyes linger on the blade at his hip.

“Shall I have Pegasus readied?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, already heading towards the door. Because _nothing_ hurt his people and got away with it.

\- - -

The early morning air is crisp with the pungent smell of spring as Jaskier makes his way out of the city, following the well-trod path to the outskirts where farmland sprawled for miles on either side of the Duppa.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the river, searching for the telltale signs Drowner’s always left when they’d been active. Pegasus knows the path well enough, Jaskier rides out here at least once a week to check on the farmers, and his trot his slow and easy along the well-worn ground.

So far he catches nothing. No tracks, no dead animals or signs of disturbance in the reeds which grow along the river banks, but as the river swells, widening as he nears Mathias’ homestead, a particular scent bleeds into the air and Pegasus tenses beneath him. Jaskier does not need a Witcher’s nose to recognize the stink of necrophage, like rotting flesh and must, and he kicks Pegasus into a canter as they near the entrance to the farm.

There’s no doubt that drowners have been here, likely lured by the sounds and smells of the farm animals out in the pastures, and Jaskier feels a spike of anger towards himself lurch through his chest. He should have paid more attention, should have known something like this would happen, because monsters were a constant and Jaskier knew enough of them to know vigilance was key in keeping ahead of them.

He swept what he could of the river every week, the new bridge being constructed a few miles down the perfect excuse for his presence poking along its banks, but it seemed he hadn’t been thorough enough, because now an innocent life had been taken.

Little Sarah, the dear thing, had not yet been even ten summers old. She’d been a little spark, that one, delighting in the stories Jaskier would tell every time he stopped by to do business with her parents. He wasn’t sure he would ever forgive himself for her death, not when he was the only one among the entire city who had the know-how to prevent it.

He was not a Witcher, a fact he was well aware of, but with two decades of following Geralt around under his belt, and many nights by the campfire being forcefully taught by the man to defend himself, he was as close to one as any half-human could hope to be. He could deal with a few Drowner’s, had stopped them from spawning in the river before, and had once even taken out a Wyvern determined to nest in the forest to the East. 

The Elven blood that ran through his veins helped. Made him just a bit sturdier, just a bit quicker on his feet than the average human, and while it was nothing compared to the capability of a Witcher, it gave him enough of an edge that he could take down a monster or two.

And if the result of that meant there were hardly ever postings for contracts, and therefore no reason for a Witcher to visit Lettenhove, well...

Jaskier shakes his head as he dismounts Pegasus, leaving him to lip at the weeds growing along the walkway. Now was not the time to think of Witcher’s, or of a Witcher in particular, now was the time to check on Mathias and Tilda, get what information he could before planning the best way to deal with the Drowner problem.

He sucks in a deep breath, and knocks on the heavy wooden door, schooling his face to look as calm and together as possible. The last thing the two needed after last night was to see Jaskier upset and angry, even if it was just at himself. They had lost their only daughter viciously and unnaturally, and he was here to offer whatever assistance he could and glean information of the events that had transpired.

The door opens after several long moments, and a boy on the beginning edge of manhood stands in the threshold. Jaskier recognizes him as a nephew, one of Tilda’s sister's boys if he’s not mistaken, though the lad's name escapes him at the moment.

“Hello.” He says as the dark-eyed youth looks him up and down. There’s a redness to his eyes that pains Jaskier, clear evidence of tears shed, but the boy straightens and turns his face away when he recognizes Jaskier, clearly ashamed to be seen in such a state.

“My Lord,” he says, strong and clear despite his grief, edging to the side to allow Jaskier room to enter. “Aunt Tilda was hoping you’d come.”

Jaskier steps into the entryway and lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder, watching as his reddened face twists with the effort of holding his pain back. Jaskier sighs internally and tightens his grip, tugs the boy close enough to wind an arm around his back, and pulls him into a loose hug. “Now lad, none of that. Tears heal the soul, don’t you know?”

The boy stiffens in his arms but nods, still pointedly not looking Jaskier in the eye, and he heaves another internal sigh, long unused to the stubbornness of youth, and lets the boy go with a ruffle to his shaggy hair. “My horse, Pegasus, is in the yard. Would you tend him for me?” He slips a hand into his coat pocket and draws out a small handful of honey candies, a rare treat for any child, and presses them into the boy's hand.

For a brief moment, the boy's eyes widen, and the pain on his face melts away as he stuffs the treats into his own pocket. It will be a short happiness, but the only one Jaskier can provide, and he’s glad to do it, no matter how small. “I’ll tend him.” The boy makes to go down the stoop, but stops and hesitates at the top stair. “My name's Albin by the way, My Lord.”

Jaskier dips his head and offers one last smile. “Thank you, Albin, I’ll be inside with your Aunt and Mama should you need me.”

The youth nods and bounds down the rest of the steps, and Jaskier sucks in a breath and shuts the door to keep the spring chill out. Dealing with poor Mathias and Tilda will be much harder, but he’s determined to do what he can to ease them, though he knows nothing will ever be enough to quell the grief of losing Sarah.

He follows the sound of low voices into the kitchen and stands at the threshold, heart twisting in his chest at the sight of Tilda wrapped in her sister’s arms while Mathias sits off to the side with his head bowed and his brother-in-law’s hand heavy on his back. The air is filled with pain, thick and oppressive, and the hurt in his chest grows when Tilda lifts her head and reveals her tear reddened face.

“My Lord!” She gasps, voice rough from crying, scrambling to pull herself away from her sister. “Oh, My Lord! Sarah! My dear, sweet Sarah, she...” Tilda’s voice cracks, and heavy tears well in her eyes. Jaskier takes a swift step forward and guides her back to her sister's embrace with a steady hand.

“Shh, it’s alright dear, I know.” Tilda goes without fight, back into her sister’s arms, and a low, keening wail pierces the air. Jaskier’s heart thuds and his own tears pick at the corner of his eyes as her grief is made tangible all around them.

“My little Sarah...” A low voice, barely heard, catches Jaskier’s attention, and he glances over to Mathias, who has lifted his head and is staring blankly into nothing. “My Darling...”

This is not the first one of his people lost to the claws of a monster, but certainly the most traumatic. The others had mostly all been men, grown and grizzled, snatched as they went about their business in the countryside. Jaskier had felt their loss, he could never be so cold-hearted as to not, but here and now, with the anguish of an innocent life before him, he suddenly feels his many years. “Mathias, Tilda, I’m going to do whatever I can to help you. Anything at all, just name it.” It’s the only comfort he can give, as cold as it is because nothing he can give them will ease the pain.

“Just have ‘em killed.” Mathias’ voice is soft, even, the voice of a man holding himself back from the precipice of rage. “Hire a Witcher, a soldier, a bloody mage, just... please.” He turns to Jaskier then, red-rimmed eyes dark and distant. “Please, Viscount. Or I’ll go out there and kill ‘em myself.”

Jaskier doesn't doubt he’d try.

\- - -

Jaskier returns to the estate shortly after his promise to Mathias to have the Drowner's dealt with. So lost in thought on the way home he starts a bit when Pegasus moves from packed earth to cobblestone roads. He shakes himself, cursing his lack of awareness, and guides the gelding home.

Artur is waiting in the foyer, face once more impassive as he takes Jaskier’s heavy coat and inquires politely about his trip. Jaskier is still too lost in thought to give him much of an answer, and he waves the man off and heads upstairs to his bedroom to think, throwing himself down into a plush armchair near the crackling fire.

Drowners are only active at night, which means he has hours yet before being able to do anything about them, and the restless energy zipping through him leaves him fidgeting in place. He’d spent a bit of time poking around the area where Sarah had been taken, near the edge of a pasture only scant feet from the river, and had quickly found tracks in the mud.

Lots of tracks, actually, more than he had ever come across before.

It was unnerving, and he was uncertain about what to do. He’d killed Drowner’s on his own, but only a few at once, and from the looks of things there were quite a bit more than that. He would have to take extra arrows, find a decent spot to pick them off without alerting the entire horde to his whereabouts. Avoiding physical contact would be key here, trying to use his dagger to take them out one by one would be too risky, and he closes his eyes and pictures the area, the sight of a willow growing by the riverside catching his mind's eye.

Ah yes, there would be perfect so long as he was able to find a branch sturdy enough to hold him, and he spends the next few hours visualizing how he wants the encounter to go, trying his best to center himself for the long night ahead. He’s no Witcher, and meditation has always been elusive to him no matter how many times Geralt had tried to teach him, but visualization is something he is good at, and he uses that to his advantage to plan for every scenario he can think of.

Come mid-afternoon he rouses himself and eats a hearty meal. Heavy stew and thick bread, enough to keep himself sated for the night, then tries to catch a few hours rest while it digests. Geralt had told him once to _never_ fight on a full stomach, or else risk bringing it all back up, and Jaskier has taken the words to heart. 

He wonders often what Geralt would think if he knew how much of what he’d taught Jaskier had stuck. How many lessons and off-handed comments Jaskier had internalized and then found himself using once they’d separated for good. The man had always seemed so frustrated, so desperate when he’d taught Jaskier anything, as though something terrible was nipping at his heels, and looking back he feels a bit bad for his response to most of it.

He’d been perhaps too flippant, too caught up in stories and adventure, to realize that Geralt was trying to care for him in the only way he knew how. That each attempt to teach him how to survive, whether it be something as mundane as setting up a proper camp, or more complex, like the best way to take out a variety of monsters, was Geralt’s only method of showing love.

He could see it now, ten years out, and lacking that presence in his life, and sometimes he wished desperately to see the man one more time if only to show him that everything he’d done for Jaskier had worked. It’s a foolish thought, one he tries not to dwell on because Geralt had made it quite clear he’d reached the end of his rope as far as Jaskier was concerned and the last thing he wanted was to burden the man with his presence again.

But still, sometimes he couldn't tramp down the longing that arose, deep and aching when he thought of Geralt and their time together.

\- - -

Jaskier heads out just as the sun begins to dip, urging Pegasus into a canter the moment they leave the cobblestone path. He’s pleased to see that there is no one about, the roads empty of life. 

He’d had Artur send out word that there was a curfew in place, that everyone, especially those living on the outskirts, should be home behind locked doors by sunset. It was as much to keep them safe as it was to keep Jaskier from being seen, but even so, he had the hood of an enchanted cloak pulled about his head. The damn thing had cost a fair bit of gold, but the enchantments laced through it, one to keep from being recognized and the other to help absorb impact, had made it worth the gold he’d spent. 

The cloak had served him well over the years and would serve him well now as he rides down the road on the opposite side of the Duppa from the road he’d taken that morning. The willow he planned to perch in lied on the banks across from Mathias’ farm, which was just as well because he didn’t want to be seen poking about their property.

About a mile from his chosen spot he stops Pegasus and dismounts the gelding, leaving him untethered and grazing along a stretch of field. The beast is smart enough to wait for Jaskier, and knows enough by now to run should danger approach, so Jaskier doesn't worry about leaving him. 

He walks the mile to the willow tree briskly, heavy leather boots leaving footprints in the soft ground as he fingers his bow and keeps a sharp eye on the river for any sign of movement. The sun has dipped to half set, and he quickens his pace as he nears the tree, eyes raking it for the best spot to wait.

There’s a branch about twelve feet up, thick enough to hold his weight and the perfect height to look out over the river. It’s high enough Jaskier doubts the drowners will be able to get to him easily, so he sucks in a breath and starts to climb, thanking the gods once more for the elder blood in his veins which allows him youth and agility, even at nearly fifty years of age.

Once positioned, legs dangling over the edge of the branch, bow held in his lap ready and waiting with a silver arrow loosely notched, he takes one more opportunity to get a good look around. His eyes follow the river as far as they can, able to spot the frame of the new bridge being constructed about another mile down, as well as the endless lengths of fields and pastures spread out on either side of the river.

There are no people or animals about, and he’s glad to see it as the sun sinks lower and encroaching darkness steals some of his sight away. He’ll have to go mostly by sound now, and the faint light of the half-moon that will be rising soon, but it’s just as well. His vision is only somewhat better than a human’s, but his hearing is sharp and focused. Still nowhere near a Witcher’s, but an advantage that has served him well countless times before.

He braces himself and waits, watching the passage of time as the sun sinks and sinks until it’s burned away and darkness settles heavily around him. He doesn't move, doesn’t so much as twitch, as he listens intently for any sound of movement below. The wait does not take very long, maybe a half-hour or so, before the sounds of shifting and splashing reach him. He waits just a bit longer, needing to be certain the activity is Drowner’s and not some other animal, and tenses every muscle in his body when one steps past the river into a dull patch of moonlight.

There is no denying it now, as the creature, flanked by others, ambles its way into the field, and Jaskier draws in a deep breath, releases it, and forces his body to relax as he draws his bow and aims for the Drowner’s head.

The arrow releases with a hiss, slicing through the air to embed itself with a squelch into the first Drowner’s skull. It goes down with a shriek, alerting the others, but Jaskier doesn’t hesitate. He notches the second arrow and fires, already readying the third by the time the second makes impact.

It goes on like this for hours. 

At some point, the Drowner’s had figured out where the assault was coming from, and the horde converged around the tree Jaskier was perched in. It makes them harder to shoot, but he manages, arrow after arrow, stopping only to suck in the occasional deep breath.

He’d brought more arrows with him this time than he ever had before, but the more Drowner's he takes out the more there seem to be. They just _keep_ coming. Rising out of the river, multiple for each one he kills, until he’s out of arrows and panting, arms shaking with strain, shoulders burning. There are still so many. A crowd of them growling and scrabbling at the base of the tree, snapping their teeth in a hideous click below him. 

How had this happened? He wonders, as he thunks his head against the trunk and closes his eyes for a moment. How had so many of the damn things come to be here when he swept the river every week? It didn’t make sense. He’d never seen a horde so large, not even during his time with Geralt, it was like they were spawning from nothing, at an accelerated rate he’d never heard of before. 

There was nothing he could do now either, out of arrows and utterly exhausted. His dagger would be useless against this many, he’d be overtaken within moments, and the only option left was to wait for sunrise. He groans, ignoring the squabble below him, and rubs a sweaty hand down his face.

Great, just great. There was no way he was going to be able to deal with this himself as he had in the past, he was going to have to do the one thing he’d managed to avoid over the years and post a bloody _contract_.

The thought makes him groan anew, and he tips his head back against the tree trunk once more, a little harder than necessary. There were other Witcher’s out there aside from Geralt, right? What were even the chances he’d be the one to answer? Surely he was being dramatic, getting worked up over nothing, and everything would just be perfectly fine. 

He’d post the contract, send it all the way to the capital, and some other Witcher he’d never met before would show up and deal with the problem and then go on his merry way.

Yes, he was being stupid. How likely was it that Geralt would answer, especially if Jaskier attached his name to it? Very slim, considering how clear he’d made his want to never see Jaskier again all those years ago.

He’d probably take one look at it and turn the other way.


End file.
